


Unguarded

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drugged John, Fluff and Humor, Injured John, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is injured during his hospital shift. High on painkillers, he babbles a lot on the way home, and at home, all the pet names he has for Sherlock. Donovan and Lestrade think it's embarrassing, and hilarious - and ultimately, something kind of precious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unguarded

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Unguarded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235842) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



> More cheer-myself-up snugglefic. I strongly suspect that this is not how it works with prisoners and the emergency department, or even strong painkillers, but fuck it. I want dopey drugged John and silly petnames and snuggles, and this is how I go there. Please leave facts at the door before taking your seats.
> 
> (And I am super excited that ogawaryoko has translated this story into Chinese! It's the first time one of my fics has been translated! *happy dances*)

The emergency department of a hospital is never a fun place to be, whether awaiting treatment or being the one providing it. Especially when some of those awaiting treatment are under the influence of narcotics, and in police custody. And most especially when one is the doctor who, because of a military background and a current sideline in crime-solving, gets called out to deal with the prisoner in question.

“Sorry John,” said Lestrade, pointing at the individual under arrest, “He’s a git, but what can you do?”

“What happened?” John took in the bloody clothing, the wild eyes, the muttered ranting. Knife wound somewhere on the torso, not life-threatening but messy.

“He was waving a knife at Sally Donovan,” here Lestrade nodded at Sally, who looked exhausted and annoyed, “Fell over his shoelaces and stabbed himself in the ribs. It doesn’t look deep but he needs a clean-up and maybe stitches.”

John sighed. “Fine. What’s his name?”

“Benny Boofhead.” John arched an eyebrow. Lestrade shrugged. “It’s what he gave us. Haven’t found any ID yet.”

John stood at a safe distance from the twitching man. “Benny? Benny, my name is Doctor Watson. I need to take a look at that cut. Can you sit quietly for me?”

Benny peered at John and then bared his horrible decayed teeth at him in an animal grimace.

“Benny, you’ve been hurt,” said John, with all the calm reassurance at his disposal, which was quite a lot, “I’m told you fell on a knife.”

“Bastard stabbed me!” Benny shrieked.

“Where did he stab you, Benny?” John kept his gaze on the too skinny man, swaying on his feet.

“Fuckin’ traitor.”

“Benny…”

“Fed the little fucker every day. Saved ‘im bread and cheese. Mousey mousey mousey. All pretty brown. An’ he stabbed me.”

“A mouse stabbed you?”

“Fucker.”

“Right. Benny. Will you let me see where you were stabbed? I need to treat the injury. Fix it up. Yeah?”

Benny groped at his own shirt and lifted it up, revealing a long but shallow cut along his ribs. Butterfly strips might do it, the way Benny was wobbling around and likely to fall down in a minute. Once he’d come down a touch from his impressive high. If they could get him to sit still.

“Benny, I’m just going to have a closer look, all right? I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to look at the wound.”

It’s only a short road to hell if the handcart is already trundling at speed along wobbly tracks, and Benny Boofhead was cranking that handcart along at a good clip. He held his shirt high just long enough for John to take a closer step to inspect the damage, then he screamed and punched and bit.

The punch was feeble, and didn’t really take John by surprise, but he zigged when he should have zagged on dodging, then recoiled as Benny’s filthy teeth snapped way too close to his face, and the smell was pretty rank as well.

And still, disaster could have been averted except Lestrade and Donovan both stepped in to restrain Benny and help John simultaneously, and John couldn’t dodge Benny, sidestep Lestrade and not trip over Donovan at the same time. His feet tangled with Donovan’s, he put an arm out to stop the tumble, said arm slid between two seats and when he went down, the result was a nasty twist, a short, sharp not-very-doctorly of “ _Fucking fuck!”_ and Benny howling like a child-like banshee.

John sat on the floor, face white as a sheet, arm tangled between the arms of two chairs while Donovan picked herself up from the floor.

“Shit. Sorry, John. Here.” She held out her hand to help him up while Lestrade tried to deal with Benny, crouched on the floor with hands over his head to shield him from the terrible, terrible world.

John just stared at Donovan’s offered hand.

“Don’t think so,” he muttered, using his left hand to support his right elbow in its awkward position instead. “Nope. Nope, definitely don’t think so.”

“John?” Lestrade asked as he hovered over the now weeping and practically supine Benny.

“Better fetch a doctor,” said John in a strained voice, then barked a dry laugh, “And bolt cutters to get me out of these chairs. And for fuck’s sake don’t tell Sherlock until I’ve had the bone set.”

*

Despite how very bad it seemed at first, John escaped with deep tissue bruising and a slight fracture of the ulna rather than a complete break of both ulna and radius. After X-rays, John’s arm was immobilised with a sling and he was given painkilling injections and a box of further painkillers to be taken four-hourly.

Benny was dealt with by another doctor – short, plump, motherly – with whom he behaved like a dozy lamb. Lestrade left two constables to keep an eye on Benny’s treatment and observation and, with Donovan, drove John home.

John sat in the front seat with Lestrade and lolled in it like a lackadaisical teenager, despite the seat belt.

“Put the siren on, Greg, put the siren on, put it on, let’s race, woooooo,” sang John, high as a kite, “Go on, please, put the siren on, it’ll make me feel all legit on fucking police business, in the front seat and everything, not like that time Sherlock got me arrested and then you had to _follow that cab_!” And he subsided into giggles, chin tucked down against his chest. “Fuckin’ Sherlock. Do you know how many times he’s got me arrested?”

“I have a fair idea,” said Greg tolerantly.

“Five times.”

“I thought it was only four.”

John gave him a sly look. “Four. Tha’s right. FOUR. Four times.”  Then he giggled like he was getting away with something, then sighed.

“Sheeeeeeeerlock,” John breathed out the name like just saying it gave him bliss. “He’s going to be mad. Don’t tell him Benny did it. Don’t tell him I did it. Sssshhhhh. Don’t say a thing and he might not notice.”

Donovan, in the back seat, rolled her eyes.  “Like that’s going to happen.”

“I was gone for a whole week in New Zealand once, he never noticed,” said John, then he frowned. “I noticed. I missed him. Sarah broke up with me because I called her Sherlock.”

“Jesus,” swore Lestrade.

“Not during sex,” John defended himself. He was sinking lower and lower in the seat, the seatbelt coming up under his chin, “Well, once, and once over coffee and once in the middle of a fight about kiwis. _Kiwis_. The bird, not the fruit. Or the other way around.” John was working up a pout now. “Sherlock doesn’t fight with me about fruit.”

“No,” observed Donovan drily, “He gets you arrested five times.”

John grinned like a delighted little boy. “Yeah.” Then he scowled. “No, that’s right, that’s not fun. The running bit’s fun. Catching baddies. That’s terrific fun.” The grin was back, and it was morphing from little boy to wicked imp. “The kissing, now. The _kissing_ is fun. It’s _stupendous_. The kissing, my god, that is _epic_.”

Lestrade turned the car into Baker Street and hoped to bundle this drug-addled, love-struck fool into his Baker Street bed before he could say anything worse.

“My pretty boy, beautiful sweetpea, he could kiss for his country.” John heaved an enormous happy sigh. “It’s a _science_ ,” he declared, then giggled. “I should nominate him for a Nobel Prize in snogging. He’s _fantastic_.”

“Here we are, John,” said Lestrade pointedly, pulling up. He nodded for Donovan to urgently get out of the car and help him to get John home, before, dear god, the man got even more garrulous. Donovan, right on that page with him, was already exiting the car at speed and opening the passenger door.

John blinked up at her, his pupils pinpoints and his brows drawn down in furious concentration. “Fuck off,” he said to Donovan.

“Doctor Watson…”

“Calling him a freak. Fuck you. He’s my honeybee.”

Lestrade reached in past Donovan, who was staring at the doctor with an expression between irritated and contrite. “Come on, John, let’s get you home.”

John continued to glare in his woozy fashion at Donovan. “Why _freak_?” he demanded, latching onto Greg’s arm with his one good hand and trying to wriggle out of the car. “Why not _unique_? Why not _singular_? Why not _amaaaaazing_?”

Donovan sighed. “I don’t call him that any more.”

John stuck his chin out aggressively, then tilted to shove his forehead and nose more distinctly in her direction, and Greg had to catch him before he fell over. “No?”

“No.”

“Good.” And he beamed, channelling that delighted little boy again, “He’s my snuggle _beeeeeee_.”

John proceeded to stagger between them into the entry and up the stairs towards his flat On the way up he giggled a bit, then sobered to grump and scowl and complain: _my arm hurts, no it doesn’t, but yes it does, fuck, being shot was shit, but this is bloody awful too, I want tea, I want a fucking cup of fucking tea, where’s Sherlock, kiss me baby, Sherlock, sweetpea, Sherlock Sheeerloooooock…_

“What the hell is going on?”

John tugged away from Greg and stumbled towards his scowling sweetie, who was striding out from the door of 221B wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, a pair of goggles and a shower cap.

“Hugglebear!”

Sherlock had to catch John before he fell over. John leaned against Sherlock’s chest and panted a bit, favouring his bandaged arm.

“I feel terrible,” John said, then giggled, “High as a fucking kite and also terrible.”

“Who broke your arm, John?”

“Benny Boofhead, but shh, don’t tell Sherlock, he’ll be mad.” He looked up. “Oops.”

“He is mad.” Sherlock curled a protective arm around John and scowled at Lestrade and Donovan. If anything, the expression looked even more alarming through the goggles and under the shower cap.

“Mishap at emergency,” Lestrade tried to explain in as few words as possible, “Benny didn’t mean it, everyone just tripped over, and John’s fine. A bit banged up but they said a few days off and being careful of the arm for a few weeks and he’ll be right as rain.”

Sherlock looked down at John, clinging like a limpet with a grin on his face, bandaged arm held gingerly between them, and sighed. He pulled the goggles down to dangle under his chin.

“John?”

“Snugglebeeeeeee.” The last syllables were sort of mumbled into Sherlock’s bare chest. Then he looked up with a wobbly grin. “Unique,” he said. “Singular, amaaazing, my honeybumble.”

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead. “Come on, John, let’s get you to bed.”

Lestrade held his breath, waiting for the excruciating, inappropriate, too-much-information response, but John just laughed and declared: “Cuddle me, beautiful. Gimme cuddles. My dumpling. Cupcake. Sweetie-pie. Snugglebunny. If you want. If you want to, fluffpuddle, sweet thing. If you want to, kitten, I want a kiss. Can I have a kiss? What did you do to your hair?” John belatedly noticed the shower cap and snagged at it with the fingers of his free hand. Dragged it off. “There you are.” He giggled and patted at the curls. “So smart. So lovely. How did I get so lucky?”

Sherlock took John’s hand, kissed the fingers, then tucked his arm down. “John, I’m going to put you to bed.”

“Can I have a kiss, kitten?”

Sherlock kissed him on the forehead again and began to manoeuvre John into the living room. Lestrade followed to help and Donovan held open the door.

“Can I have a cuddle?”

“When I get you to bed, yes.”

“I like cuddles with you. Beautiful boy.”

“You need to sleep.”

“Sleeeeeep,” agreed John, “Fuck I feel awful.”

“As long as Benny feels worse,” scowled Sherlock.

“Oooh, yeah, he will when he’s coming down. Nasty nasty nasty headache coming for him and crying and throwing up, it’s gonna be a bitch for him. Like morphine.” John shuddered and clung to Sherlock. “Fuck. Dunno what’s worse. Being shot or coming off the morphine.”

Sherlock petted his hair for a minute while everyone else pretended not to hear that.

“Being shot,” John decided at last, “Definitely worse.”

They were passing the kitchen table at this point and John stopped to point accusingly at a group of colour photos spread across one half of the table, right next to Sherlock’s interrupted experiment involving pulverised ice, squid ink and half a tennis ball.

The photo at which John pointed showed a close-up of a tattoo – a pair of American style dog tags on a ball chain with a line of florid text alongside it. “That’s not how he spelled _dishonour_ ,” John sneered, “With a bloody _u_ in it.”

Sherlock froze. “Who, John?”

“Bloody Beltrain.  Christ, he went on and on and on,” John adopted a dreadful faux Alabama twang,” That’s ‘n – O - r, no ‘u’, you limey dicks.”

Sherlock propped John against Lestrade for a moment while he snatched up the photo and peered at it.   _Death before Dishonour_. Then he grinned, turned and took John’s face in his hands. “Americans spell dishonour without the u, of course. John, you’re a genius.” He kissed John thoroughly, and given that Lestrade was still half propping John up from the other side, the good DI began to feel a little awkward. Donovan wasn’t helping, the way she grinned at the tableau.

When Sherlock released John, the latter was grinning like it was all his Christmases come at once.

“Did I do a smart thing?”

“You did a brilliant thing, John, illuminating as always.”

“Good. Cos I’m going to be sick now.”

Sherlock caught John as he doubled over, caught up the bowl of melting ice and squid ink and held it ready. John only dry retched a couple of times.

“Sorry, baby, false alarm.”

“Bed for you, John.”

“Please.”

Sherlock sent Greg ahead to turn down the sheets and then gently helped John to lie down.

“Sorry, precious,” John mumbled.

“Shh, now.” Sherlock kissed John’s brow and tugged the blankets up. “I’ll be back in just a moment. If you need to be sick, try to aim outside the bed.”

“I’m a doctor,” John complained, “I know where to throw up.”

Sherlock tugged pillows closer and arranged them around John, to help support his damaged right arm. He kissed John again, on the nose this time, then went out to the kitchen where Donovan and Lestrade waited.

“You need any more help?” offered Lestrade, very much hoping the answer would be ‘no’.

“No,” said Sherlock, snatching up his phone to send a couple of rapid texts, no doubt relating to the American tattoo with the British spelling, “Though if either of you tell a living soul about the pet names, I’ll make you both regret it for the rest of your lives.”

Donovan smirked at him. “What’s wrong with ‘snugglebee’?”

Sherlock’s strange glare made her blink. “There is nothing wrong with snugglebee,” he said in a low voice, “But it’s not for other people. It’s for _John_.”

Her smirk dissolved into a kinder sort of smile. “Yeah. He really loves you.”

“I know he does.”

“And you really love him.”

He glared, then frowned, because he could detect no sarcasm in her. “Yes, I do,” he said, matter of factly.

“Keep it up,” said Donovan and headed back to the door.

Lestrade gave Sherlock one of his lop-sided grins. “His doc said he’ll need these every few hours.” He pulled a box of painkillers from his pocket and handed them over, “And plenty of fluids. You know the drill.”

Sherlock took the box. He certainly did. Lestrade had once nursed him through something similar, though considerably complicated by withdrawal as part of the whole unpleasant exercise.

“Sheerloooooooooooock,”came a drawl from the bedroom, “Baaaby!”

“Better go give him his cuddle, then, _Fluffpuddle_ ,” said Lestrade, failing to repress an impish grin.

Sherlock put the painkillers on the table. “Don’t.”

Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry. But it really is adorable.”

“I am not adorable.”

“John thinks so. He pretty much said so all the way here.”

“John is an idiot, and compromised by painkillers.”

“And besotted by love.”

“ _Sweeeeeetpea_!” crooned the distant voice.

Sherlock’s head rose at the sound, like an animal pricking up its ears to the call of home, and he took a step bedroom-wards.

“As are you,” said Lestrade, tapping him on the chest.

Sherlock looked down at the accusing finger, up at Lestrade’s affectionate grin and across at the bedroom door, from whence the sound of cursing had begun.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, “I am.” He blinked and looked back at Lestrade with a wondering expression. “He calls me _sweetheart_ , Greg. And he _means_ it.”

“Of course he does, you prat,” Greg Lestrade patted Sherlock’s arm reassuringly, “You go look after him, now. Call me if you need me to bring anything by for you.”

Sherlock nodded and strode off to the bedroom, leaving Lestrade to let himself out

As Lestrade put his hand on the door handle, he heard John giggling, joined by a deeper rumble of laughter from Sherlock before Sherlock’s voice said fondly: “John, you idiot, be still or you’ll hurt yourself.”

“ _Honeybeeeeee_ ,” carolled John sleepily, then “Ow.”

“I told you. Here. I’ve got you. Shush, now. You’re going to feel awful in the morning.”

“Gissa kiss, kitten.”

Lestrade closed the door softly behind him and joined Donovan on the street outside.

“Not a word about the names,” he told her with a dark look. What had seemed funny now struck him as something precious. He didn’t want to spoil it for them.

Donovan gazed up at the windows of 221B. “I know everyone thinks I’m a bitch,” she began.

“It’s not that. It’s just… it’s hilarious, I know. But…”

“They’ve been through a lot,” Donovan dropped her gaze to meet her DI’s. “Has anyone ever loved you like that, Greg?”

Greg’s smile was a little shy. “Maybe… maybe someone is starting to. A bit, at least. She’s that for me, I think.”

Sally Donovan nodded. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet, then. Until then, I’m not so bitter and twisted that I’m going to ruin it for them.” She looked right into his eyes then. “Though, so help me Greg, if Molly starts calling you snookums and bunnikins in my hearing, I won’t be held responsible.”

Greg looked so offended by the notion, Sally knew instantly that sappy pet names were already being bandied about by the lovebirds. She rolled her eyes. “Back to the hospital, sir?”

“Might as well see if Benny Boofhead has remembered anything more about the murder he claims he saw, or just nobbled another doctor in our absence.”

*

In their room, Sherlock, stripped down to only his pants, lay next to John, whom he’d likewise stripped with some difficulty. He draped his arm carefully over John’s hip. He had, upon request, cuddled and kissed and even hummed his way through a few bars of an ABBA song he’d learned by accident because John had turned it into an earworm over the last month.

 _Honey, honey, how you thrill me, a-huh, honey, honey.  
_ _Honey, honey, nearly kill me, a-huh, honey, honey_.

Honestly, John’s repertoire remained appalling.

Sherlock grinned and kissed John’s cheek. John, who had finally retreated into sleep, sighed a little, so Sherlock kissed his cheek again.

“Fluffbundle,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, half in the spirit of experimentation, half just for the amusement of it. John’s lips moved in something like the word ‘bumble’.

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek a third time and snuggled closer to John’s bare skin. “Idiot,” said Sherlock lovingly. John sighed and sank further into sleep, wearing a happy smile.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unguarded [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456153) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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